


Never Mind the Gravitation

by Argyle



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Established Relationship, Holiday Fic Exchange, Interplanetary Travel, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-18
Updated: 2013-01-18
Packaged: 2017-11-25 21:43:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/643274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Argyle/pseuds/Argyle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sure, there's life on Mars. But Crowley can hardly call it <i>living</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Never Mind the Gravitation

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2012 Good Omens Holiday Exchange.

_CARL TUTTLE, BBC NEWS: On the subject of terraforming, we bring you now to Dr. Stanley Trebuchet, lecturer at Norton Polytechnic, without whom none of this would be possible. Dr. Trebuchet, what makes your discovery so significant?_

_TREBUCHET: For one thing, the technology to terraform Mars simply didn't exist a week ago!_

_TUTTLE: Yes. Listeners, if you're just joining us, we’ve received official word that not only is Mars an ideal candidate for ecological modification, it's also--_

_TREBUCHET: No, I mean I haven't the foggiest where the data's coming from. I went into my office on Tuesday morning, and there it was, sat next to a cup of coffee and a rather splendid cheese danish. Supplementary notes and a scope of work appeared on Wednesday. If I may be so bold, it's a bloody mystery._

_TUTTLE: You mean you_ aren't _responsible for what is arguably the most important scientific breakthrough of the decade, if not the latter half of the twentieth century?_

_TREBUCHET: Um. Well. That's not what I-- That is to say, this has all been rather sprung on me, and dental hygene's more my specialty..._

_TUTTLE: Thank you, Dr. Trebuchet. Listeners, please stay tuned for more on this startling development. We'll next go to Upper Tadfield Air Base, from which it's believed the Americans -- in conjunction with the British National Space Centre -- will launch the first Martian terraforming exploratory mission, tentatively named_ Project Scorpion-Tiger Vortex Shield _. As you may know, the ability to accomplish manned flights of this magnitude has also only been public knowledge for the past three days... And at the top of the hour, Know Your Ducks..._

21 June 1995, BBC Radio 4

\--

_Four years later_

To begin with, Mars was a bit rubbish.

The most generous estimates still put full completion of surface reengineering at a year or more hence. So even without the ever-present layer of dust that finagled its way into the crooks of Crowley's clothes and hair and bodily crevices; even without the inconveniently high atmospheric pressure, the cold, and the rusty midday sky; even without the storms and the din that followed, the place would be a far cry from Mayfair.

That isn't to say Crowley didn't have a go at things. When his Italian leather sofa was deemed too heavy for standard Earth-to-Mars freight transport, he called in a few favors, nudged a judgment or two just so, and ensured that both a highly competent furniture maker and a well-thumbed upholsterer were booked on the next shuttle to Cydonia City. He also managed to ensnare the line chef from his favorite Thai takeaway place, a not half-bad criminal mastermind-come-violinist, and Savile Row's second best tailor. Beyond practical use, this at least augmented the yawn-inducing Martian population.

To wit, one hundred and twenty-five thousand scientists, stewards, politicos, and sundry staff lived under the Cydonian dome. Another ten thousand were stationed in temporary barracks out in one crater or another. Exactly zero of them were willing to listen to Crowley drunkenly riff on the improbability of hydroponically-grown tomatoes.

In fact, there was only one being in all of creation who was capable of such a feat.

Fortunately, Crowley owned the fastest VidPhone on the planet.1

"Crowley?" Aziraphale's face phased into clarity on the video-screen, large as life and quite as perturbed. Then the screen was obstructed for a moment as he reached forward to toggle a knob on his own VP. "Oh, I can never get this infernal thing-- What time is it, anyway?"

"Time? You can't tell me you were sleeping," said Crowley.

"Don't be silly." Aziraphale's features softened. "It's good to see you, my dear."

Despite himself, Crowley smiled. "So, what's new? Did you go see the new James Bond film like I told you to?"

"Ah, you can't actually expect me to sit through another one of those _pictures_ ," Aziraphale moaned. It sounded rehearsed, but only because it was a conversation they'd had before: Crowley had been offworld for the past _three_ Bond premiers, but Aziraphale still refused to humor Crowley's request for a detailed recap. Seeing the thing at Mars' excuse for a theatre nine months after the fact just wasn't the same.

Crowley gave it one more attempt: "I know: you've been extraordinarily busy, right? Had a run on _A Boy's Own Book of Dinosaur Riddles?_ "

"You'd be surprised," Aziraphale sniffed. And then, hurriedly, in one breath: "Anyway, I'll be closing the shop soon."

"That's some work ethic, always kicking off early."

"No, I mean— Crowley, it's absolutely _wretched_. Gabriel came round with the orders a week ago, and it's all I can do to begin preparations without succumbing to hysterics. One doesn't simply uproot oneself at this stage in life, and besides, I can't bear to leave the shop under the watch of some _clerk_ , so there it is—"

"Hang on, angel. What orders?"

"I've been redistributed. To Florida."

"Oh," Crowley said, lamely. Grandiose tales of giant rodents aside, Florida represented something of a nil in his mind. He'd probably not given the place serious thought since the time he'd bought a round for Ponce de León after the whole Fountain of You Probably Oughtn't Drink from Here misunderstanding. Then, "But I expect you'll hold on to the real estate in SoHo?"

Even coming from a distance of several hundred million kilometers, Aziraphale's stare was exactingly shrewd.

Crowley nodded. "So what's the problem? It won't be forever. Nothing is."

"Don't think you'll get away with using cliche on me. Crowley, do you know what the weather is like in Florida? Sunny. And when it isn't sunny, it _pours_. And there are all manner of ghastly, large winged things. Why, it's an absolute jungle. And the _tourists_... My word, can you imagine? At least your higher-ups thought to tie a promotion to your transfer papers."2

"Right. Feel like comparing? You're talking to someone currently living on _Mars_ ," said Crowley. What he failed to add was that if given the choice, he'd likely take Mars over Florida as well. He leaned a little closer towards the VidPhone. He could dimly make out details of the shop's backroom: stacks of books, the remnants of what had likely once been a sizable plate of biscuits, and Crowley's favorite potted ficus. One of the front-most leaves was looking a bit crispy. "Say, have you been remembering to water my plants?"

"You're changing the subject."

"I'm not." Though of course Crowley was. He'd even begun to have that sinking sensation, but wasn't yet ready to yield to it. "All right, fine. Tell me: why are you being sent to Florida?"

"By pain of Business Consultant." In the same way, Aziraphale might well have invoked the name _fat-free cheesecake_ , or something similarly distasteful.

"Yes?" asked Crowley.

"They hired such a creature. Upstairs. And he recommended a vigorous restructuring campaign the likes of which haven't been seen since Ms. Antoinette, etcetera. I'm now considered the Regional Manager of the southeastern United States."

"Sounds like a promotion to—"

"Crowley."

"All right, you're leaving London," said Crowley. Admittedly at first glance, it appeared every bit as bad as Aziraphale made it out to be. He pressed, "When?"

"Now," said Aziraphale. "Or as soon as is reasonably possible. You know how long it takes to run paperwork."

Oh. The sinking became a _ping_ in the part of himself where hopes went largely ignored. The whole act of his own – albeit temporary, he assured himself – leave of Earth and London and his flat, of the Bentley and his record collection—this was all explained away with the knowledge that when he got back, some things would be waiting for him. Or someone.

"Well, there are always holidays," Aziraphale moaned, apparently having read Crowley's expression. "And from what I've heard, there's a new shuttle-port going up at Canaveral. How long is the flight?"

"Fast," said Crowley, automatically. "Faster than you'd believe."

***

In his gut, Crowley knew exactly which Tadfieldian preteen was responsible for mankind's sudden drive to conquer the red planet, though that specific detail went unrecognized when Dagon first came crashing through the Blaupunkt to say that effective immediately, Crowley's talents were needed elsewhere. Hell wanted to get a jump on the other guys when it came to delivering temptation to the soon-to-be Martians, and Crowley was just the demon for the job of overseeing things.3 Crowley was most assuredly not amused.

"They can't be serious. They can't."

Aziraphale didn't answer. But by his sudden loss of color, Crowley thought he must've been in total agreement.

***

There were no roads on which to rack up traffic violations, nor traffic wardens on hand to vex. There were no three-star restaurants, nor angels to treat to dessert and digestifs. There were no parks in which to linger.

Crowley occupied himself. When he thought of it, he left the faucet in his quarters running all night. And terraformers were easy to distract: one dropped decimal left six months' worth of calculations to nought. The soil would be made too acidic; the gravity pistons would be thrown off; standard orders of rations would be replaced with dried eel; the dome would crack in such a way as to jeopardize the lives of several thousand colonists.

Only once did he meander outside, away from the dome, without a lifesuit or oxygen pack. It was a week after he arrived. The surface pressure that day was nearly seven millibars, the equivalent to that experienced twenty-eight miles above the surface of the Earth: hardly worth noting in light of some heights he'd endured. Even the sky was more brown than red. But when Crowley delivered the well-exaggerated story later, Aziraphale's begrudging interest -- accented with disapproving clicks of his tongue -- was worth the trouble of cleaning his sand-ruddied jacket.

He read, he slept,4, and he waited for the VidPhone to ring.

One day, he found a basket on the counter. He first inspected the bottle of wine within, running a thumb over the dusty label: Château Cheval Blanc '47. There was also a note, and he was more happy to see the neat, familiar copperplate penmanship than he'd care to admit:

_Is there something wrong with your phone? I've been trying to reach you for hours--_

_Arrived in Florida this morning. Discovered salamanders nesting in the drain._

_Even on Mars, I imagine a meal tastes better when someone else makes it. I trust you've appropriate stemware._

_See you--  
A._

 

\-------------------------  
[1] This wasn't an exaggeration. The best commercial VidPhones -- the sort that still-green Martian dignitaries bought for their kids -- took over six minutes to send a message to Earth. Even the government-issued ones used by terraformers slogged by at four and a half minutes. But Crowley labored under the assumption that interplanetary communication should be instantaneous: he'd seen _Star Trek_. And so for him, it was. [back]

[2] Crowley was made Viscount of Hell in March of 1996. Although generally not fond of honorifics, he had to admit it had a nice ring to it. [back]

[3] The Just the Demon for the Job list was one of Barbatos' bad ideas. It hung in his office to the right of the Mayan skull collection, and at any given time it detailed the names of fifty or sixty legions' worth of demons capable of all manner of varied, thrilling tasks. The text was beautifully offset by crepe paper and entrails. To be sure, Crowley's name was near the bottom, and only identifiable via magnifying glass. [back]

[4] Days on Mars were forty minutes longer than days on Earth. To Crowley's ears, this translated to something more like four hours: he'd never turned down a challenge. [back]


End file.
